Ink
By: Sophie Chen
She watches her face in the mirror’s glow,
skin like porcelain, eyes that know.
Her name, a melody soft yet strong,
but in foreign mouths, it sounds all wrong.
“Too hard to say,” they tease and grin,
like she’s a puzzle trapped within.
她低声说：“我是谁？”
(Softly, she whispers, “Who am I?”)
Her mother paints with practiced grace,
brush in hand, no need to chase.
“每一笔，都是我们的故事。”
(“Every stroke carries our story.”)
Calligraphy flows, bold and free,
a language of strength, a part of me.
She tastes the past in jasmine leaves,
hears its echoes in moonlit eves.
Legends dance in shadowed plays,
dragons rise in crimson haze.
No longer lost, no longer torn,
she wears her name like silk reborn.
The strokes, the sounds, the fire inside,
a heritage she won’t let hide.
So when they ask, she lifts her chin,
lets her story rise within.
她大声说：“我是我。”
(With pride, she says, “I am me.”)